


Strange Ties

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Jak II, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Daxter, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25250032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Sig reflects on the unlikely friendship of the dynamic duo.
Relationships: Daxter & Jak
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	Strange Ties

**Author's Note:**

> have had this own in the brain backlog for literal years. 
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!

Daxter calls them the “dynamic duo”, but Sig thinks that’s not quite right. Unusual, maybe. Abnormal, even. They’re definitely dichotomous. 

Jak is quiet, but pig-headed. Daxter’s mouth is rarely closed, and even rarer does he say anything of value, but he’s the one to think things through, and is more cautious on the missions they run for Krew and the Underground. 

Sig never sees them apart. The idea of separation won’t dare be whispered. He asked Torn about it once. Torn rolled his eyes and, mocking Jak’s voice, said “Where I go, he goes.”

  
  


They’re back at the pumping station. Metal eggs hatched, and now the place is even more packed with the rotten buggers. Sig shoots the last one with the peacemaker, with Jak watching his back, and they start the long journey back to the door. 

He doesn’t see the last one until it’s too late. It jumps from the trees and lands right on Jak’s head. Jak is already bruised and limping, and then the beast sinks its fangs into the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.

Daxter screams and leaps from Jak’s shoulder, scurrying behind Sig’s ankles. Jak thrashes, skin losing pallor, teeth growing over his lips, and horns sprouting from his skull. Jak grabs the metalhead and throws it to the ground. Jak gets on top of it, claws slicing through its flesh like soft butter, and it putters out its last pitiful breath.

Jak’s back is hunched, dark eco dripping from his claws.

Sig swallows, and raises the peacemaker. “Okay, cherry,” he says, taking a step back. “It’s all good now. Shake it off.” Jak looks at him with pure black eyes and no recognition, fangs bared. He steps forward. Sig can smell the dark eco rolling off him, like a bad infection. Sig starts charging the gun, heart hammering in his chest.

“Oh, no!” Daxter walks past Sig towards Jak, wagging a finger. “You do not get to drag me out here, and expect me to walk back. Look at these legs! You know how long it’ll take me to get back to base with these legs?”

“Daxter,” Sig says warningly, fingers ready to hit the trigger.

“Put that thing up, Siggy, I got this handled.” 

Sig has no faith in that; Daxter screams and runs at any loud noise. But Daxter jumps from the ground to his spot on Jak’s shoulder. Jak swings his head wildly. He tries to reach back and grab Daxter, but he can’t reach. Daxter crawls from Jak’s shoulder to his head, and then he _bites_ down on Jak’s ear, hard.

Jak roars again, but his hands come up to his face. His muscles shudder under his skin, which slower regains its golden hue. Jak’s knees buckle, and he falls to them, as the fangs recede and horns slide back into his head.

Daxter waits without moving, and slowly, Sig sees recognition in Jak’s eyes again. He pulls his finger away from the trigger and lowers the barrel. 

They wait a few extra minutes for Jak’s head to stop swimming.

“You back, cherry?” 

Jak only nods and shakily gets to his feet. Daxter assumes his spot on Jak’s shoulder and helps balance him.

Jak never brings up the incident, but Sig is aware of Daxter’s laser gaze the entire time back to Krew’s place. He rides backwards on Jak’s shoulder to keep an eye on Sig, and that twinge of doubt and protectiveness lingers every time he looks at Sig, no matter how much time passes by. Shame burns in Sig’s gut, and he knows who was the true Wasterlander in that moment. He’d been prepared to put Jak down, just like another metalhead, but Daxter showed no fear, and got Jak to come back. 

* * *

In one of their rare moments of down time, Sig waits at the bar. Daxter paces back and forth across the tabletop, and Sig is thankful Krew doesn’t actually have customers, because sanitation at the Hip Hog is clearly not a priority. 

“There we were,” Daxter says, gesturing grandly, “TWENTY lurkers in front of us, Jak down for the count. It’s all up to me. They charge. I hit them with a HI-YA and a KA-CHOP and a spin kick!” He does spin, his tail knocking over a collection of half-full bottles that crash against the floor. “I dodge. One of them comes from the air, but I get them with an uppercut! And a tail slap! Soon, the dust settled, and it was over. All fifty of those bastards, dead. Orange Lightning victorious once more.”

Daxter smiles proudly. Sig rolls his eyes, and nudges Jak with his elbow. But Jak is laughing behind a fist, eyes closed and crinkled, and for the first time, Sig sees him unbothered. Jak’s eyes are locked onto Daxter, who is grinning proudly, tail flicking happily. 

The doubt Sig holds about Daxter’s story doesn’t matter. He sighs, and smiles, and raises his glass. 

“Well, I’ll drink to that, Daxter.”

* * *

Sig blames it on Jak’s pigheadedness. The kid just doesn’t use that meat in-between his ears. Sig wishes Krew never gave him that mod-gun— any excuse Jak has to use it, he does. It’s that impulsiveness that gets him banged up and battered on just about every mission they go on.

The claw marks on his shoulder aren’t that deep, but Jak can’t reach back to take care of it himself. 

“Hold still, cherry,” Sig says, “this’ll probably sting.” The one good thing about working for Krew is the man always has green eco in supply. Sig knows better than to ask where he gets it from. 

“Daxter can do it.” Jak’s voice is clipped, cagey. He sits shirtless in one of Krew’s booths, and for the first time, Sig sees the crisscross of old scars across his chest. Surgically precise cuts and burns, in all kinds of patterns. He tries not to stare— he has his share of war wounds too, but it’s clear not all these were from the wrong side of a metalhead, and the questions spin in his head. The boys don’t talk a lot about where they’ve come from. 

Sig pauses, eyes tracing the still bleeding wound on Jak’s shoulder. “It’ll be faster if you let me patch it up.”

Jak crosses his arms around his chest, and leans forward, eyes flashing black. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses, and the dark eco smell fills the room. 

“Easy, buddy,” Daxter says, hopping onto the table. He stretches his arms and cracks his knuckles. “Put the scary eyes away. Sig, I got this.” He grins proudly, and takes the supplies from Sig’s arms. Sig watches Daxter struggle to slap enough green eco on the wounds to fully cover them, and again as Daxter tries to wrap Jak’s shoulder— his arms are too short, and he has to use his tail. Sig knows he could’ve had that patched in two minutes, but Daxter takes at least six.

Jak flinches sometimes when Daxter’s claws accidentally scratch the wrong place, but otherwise he’s quiet, tense. Sig sits in the opposite booth the entire time. Daxter finishes with a soft, “Ta-da!” and slaps Jak on the back of the head. Jak stands and quickly pulls his shirt on, and once again, the scars vanish. 

Sig knows now, though, and beneath the fabric he still can still see the evidence of a painful past he’ll never know the truth of. He’s never asked questions before. He doesn’t care where Jak and Daxter came from, doesn’t really care why they’re working for Krew or the Underground. As long as they’re good at what they do, and can protect his six, he doesn’t care. The Precursors know he has his own share of secrets, and he won’t begrudge anyone wanting to leave their past in the past. 

But now he wonders.

He’s staring. And Daxter’s staring at him. Daxter clears his throat and stomps his foot, glaring, still with that same protectiveness that contradicts his primal cowardice. 

Sig looks away, ashamed. 

* * *

Sig thinks he’s going crazy.

Jak’s asleep in Krew’s backroom. Asleep is the only time Sig sees him relaxed, that tension in his bones gone. And watching his chest rise and fall, the way his fingers curl around Daxter’s tail, Sig swears, he looks like Damas’s kid. 

He’s too old, obviously. But the more Sig looks, the more he sees. The nose, the crooked smile, the hair. 

Even in sleep, Jak and Daxter are inseparable. Daxter sleeps on Jak’s chest, and one of Jak’s hands hangs off the edge, fingers barely brushing against the grip of the gun. Daxter mutters in his dreams, about a place called “Sandover”, and calling out, “Ride the Flut-Flut, Jak! Get it!”

Sig huffs, unable to stop the smile. Mar would love Daxter, he’s sure of it. He hopes he sees the day when they get to meet. 

* * *

Another bag of metal head gems on his shoulder, another job well done. The ocean laps at the beach, and Jak stretches in the sunlight. Daxter jumps off Jak’s shoulder into the sand, shaking his fur. 

“It’s kinda like back home,” Daxter says. “Except all the black goo. The sand looks the same, at least.”

“Think there’s a lurker shark in the water?”

“If there is, you’re finding that out on your own! You know how many arrhythmias I had watching that fin pop out of the water?”

“You still followed me in each time.”

“Because if you got eaten, Samos would never let me hear the end of it! I still don’t know what the hell you were thinking.” 

“The fisherman said he’d give us each a pound of candy if we caught it.”

“That old kook was always trying to get us to do his job!”

When they talk like this, Sig never really understands. He wonders if it’s a code between them. Jak sticks his hand in the water and splashes Daxter.

“Hey!” Daxter retaliates by kicking sand up at Jak. Jak covers his eyes and laughs. A real laugh, not one hidden behind a fist. Sig thinks it’s the first time he’s heard such a noise.

Jak runs.

Daxter gets on all fours and follows. 

Sig’s about to yell at them to get it together, pack it up, get back to Krew’s, but he stops. Sighs. Smiles. He sits underneath the shade of a tree, peacemaker ready just in case, and he watches them play like the boys he forgets they are. They throw sand balls and splash in the water. One time, Daxter leaps from the ground straight for Jak’s chest, and manages to knock him down. They roll on the ground, and they laugh and laugh.

Sig figures there’s no harm in staying a little while. Krew can sit and stew for a while. Precursor’s know he’s not going anywhere.


End file.
